


When We Meet Again.

by thessbakerstreet



Series: Pasts, Presents and Futures [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputee!Victor, Angst, Drug Abuse, Fluff, M/M, Unilock, although nothing graphic more the aftermath of it, mentions of torture, re-unions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:56:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2060163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thessbakerstreet/pseuds/thessbakerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He looked so much more tired than Sherlock remembered. Not in the sense that he was obviously doped to his eyeballs on pain meds but in the sense that something was missing, some...spark or flare, as ridiculous as the detective found the thought. He had seen the man in hospital before through their years together, through various scrapes and accidents and troubles they got themselves into. But despite the miserable, clinical atmosphere Victor would always hold an aura of barely contained energy like a forcefield around him, like a static charge waiting to defuse and electrify. But lying in the government sanctioned hospital now he looked like someone had puled the plug out of the socket or flipped the switch to off."</p><p>Sherlock and Victor lose touch with each other after a disastrous and painful breakup in university. The years pass and the two hear nothing from each other, until Sherlock stumbles across the mans name while meddling in Mycrofts business and hacking into secure servers, seeing that he had been gravely injured in the line of duty. He decides it is finally time to re-unite with a figure from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Injuries.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [corviine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviine/gifts).



> Written for the Viclockgiftexchange on tumblr for the wonderful [Mayhembee](http://mayhembee.tumblr.com) whos work I admire greatly to the extent that posting this makes me nervous. I hope you enjoy it. x

“Two months...Severe tissue damage...irreparable...six hours of surgery...below elbow...range of movement is...rehabilitation...”

The snatches of conversation Sherlock could gather from where he was hiding in the shadows of the doorway as Victor was briefed on his condition were blunt and honest about what they had been able to patch up and what they could not. Sherlock knew however that Victor would prefer it this way, no beating around the bush as it were, he liked people to get straight to the point. At least, that's how the Victor he remembered would feel. Sherlock was a very different man from his university days and it could only be assumed that the same stood for the fragile looking agent in the hospital bed.

He looked so much more tired than Sherlock remembered. Not in the sense that he was obviously doped to his eyeballs on pain meds but in the sense that something was missing, some...spark or flare, as ridiculous as the detective found the thought. He had seen the man in hospital before through their years together, through various scrapes and accidents and troubles they got themselves into. But despite the miserable, clinical atmosphere Victor would always hold an aura of barely contained energy like a forcefield around him, like a static charge waiting to defuse and electrify. But lying in the government sanctioned hospital now he looked like someone had puled the plug out of the socket or flipped the switch to off. Physically however, age had been kind to Victor Trevor. The delicate creases and laugh lines that had begun to mark the mans dark complexion added an air of sophistication in Sherlocks opinion. And years of running around, fighting for his life while working for the elder Holmes brother – much in the style of James Bond Sherlock liked to imagine (not that he'd ever admit to that (or even admit to thinking about victor at all for that matter)) – had left the agent with a well built physique that in any other situation Sherlock wouldn't be able to help but admire, despite the obvious drop in muscle weight that had occurred when Victor had been taken and had god knows what done to him god knows where.

Sherlock startled in his hiding place when the doctor standing over Victors bedside turned abruptly towards him, lab-coat swirling as he practically marched out of his patients room in an odd stride not exactly befitting a hospital. Before Sherlock could remove himself from the doorway it was swung open with a bang, Sherlocks entire being exposed to the small room instead of just an anonymous face peering unnoticed through the small glass window. The greying, bearded man was obviously oblivious to the detectives shock as he strode straight past him in his bizarre stomping walk leaving Sherlocks to stare hopelessly after him as he made his way down sickly pale green corridors. 

“...William?”

A groggy voice filtered through the air, catching Sherlocks attention. Slowly he was forced to turn his head back towards the hospital room, his neck feeling stiff as it was forced to shift to the right so pale blue eyes could lock onto the face of a man he had not seen in over eight years. He could feel air rise from his lungs and filter silently past his vocal chords as he made a couple hesitant steps into the sterile room, adams apple bobbing as he swallowed repeatedly trying to force words to come out. Victor looked worse closer up, the defeated air about him that replaced his former electric personality was more evident, like his handsome, optimistic features had been painted over in some grotesque mask of hopelessness and resignation.

“you're still the only one who calls me that” Sherlock smiled weakly, positioning himself at the foot of bed, still looking hesitantly into the eyes of the man in front of him, reluctant to let his gaze wander to Victors arm. Victor didn't smile back. His expression remained stiff, jaw locked in place, straining as eyes flicked up and down Sherlocks figure, not the the appreciative manner Sherlock had grown used to in university, but with the harsh cation of a threatened animal, obviously he had been thrown by Sherlocks unexpected presence.  
“Mycroft told you” His voice was clipped and beginning to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable and lost, an odd feeling for a man so used to being in control.  
“No.” He replied, feet shuffling on the linoleum floor “If he had it his way I never would have found out either. I was just hacking into his files to piss him off when I spotted your name. That was a few weeks ago before they'd found you...I've just kept myself updated since.”  
“without his permission I assume?”  
“Not exactly, I'm sure the gits been aware of my interference though.”

There was a pause in which Victors expression softened into a small smile before slowly warping its way into a grin.  
“You haven't changed a bloody bit have you?”  
Sherlocks expressions mimicked that of the injured man's in reply. And for a second the two forgot the situation in which they were re-uniting and simply smiled at each other, one sitting one standing as they basked in each others unexpected presence. The spell was broken when Sherlocks eyes drifted down Victors body to rest on what was left of the mans arm, the smile slid off Victors face as he noticed, twisting into a grimace.   
“I'm sorry about your arm.” Sherlock spoke with uncharacteristic sincerity. Victor replied by jerking his head to the side in invitation for Sherlock to sit. 

“Don't be sorry, nothing you could have done” Victor eventually spoke quietly when Sherlock settled in the chair perched to the left of the bed.  
“You seem to taking it quite well. Most people would seem more...distressed I would imagine”  
“I think I might be in some sort of shock perhaps, or maybe its the morphine dulling everything, or maybe I'm just grateful to be alive at all...” Victor trailed off. The detective winced at this, reluctant to enter any sort of conversation that would address how Victor sustained the injuries he was currently nursing. He had seen the reports that went through in the two months Victor had been taken and held captive, and he knew how inhumanly violent such situations could get. Distressingly he could even deduce how many of the cuts and bruises littering Victors battered body were inflicted, but hearing the stories first hand and having his deductions confirmed were something the detective was now yet prepared to face. In honesty he was quite taken aback by the level of protectiveness he still felt for the agent, any poisonous feelings he had once held in regard of the man during the years of their separation seem to have been thrown to the back of his head to linger as background noise in his skull the minute he had been spotted in the doorway.

When Sherlock came back from his thoughts he noticed that Victors gaze had been stuck on the bandages tightly wound round the end of the stump of his forearm, eyes saddening as if the reality of the situation was beginning to set in suddenly after his dismissal to Sherlock. Desperate for once in his life to try and get someone to look on the bright side of things instead of the morbid Sherlock began to ramble.  
“The amputation is below the elbow at least, that'll make life with prosthetics easier, they've advanced quite a bit in recent years as well, and Mycroft will ensure you get the best and its the left arm as well and your right handed so if you want to be optimistic about it you could really consider yourself...”  
“And I'll still lose my job and never play piano again and be useless at I'm sure a whole range of things” Victor cut off Sherlocks well intentioned rant “oh, was that the cynicism you were expecting before?” 

The words would have made Sherlock flinch had they not been spoken in an apologetic tone. He knew how important Victors work was to him. Important enough to make him abandon you in the first place. The voice of his younger self whispered nastily to him, but it was shaken off. For all the faults Sherlock had, holding grudges (except in specific cases such as Mycroft) was not one of them. The past was the past and he simply didn't have time to waste dwelling on it.  
“How about we just don't think about what happened at the moment” Victor suggested “I've done enough of that in the past couple months, I'll deal with it all eventually but now is not the time. Can we just...chat? I feel like I'm meeting you again for the first time almost, unfortunately I'm the one in the hospital bed this time round however. We do get ourselves in a lot of trouble don't we?”  
“I think its more you getting us both in these situation I haven't forgotten who put me in that hospital bed the first round you know” Sherlock smiled at the memory.

For the next forty-five minutes the two sat swapping stories about their various misadventures throughout the years, Victor trying to go into as much detail as he could without breaking the official secrets act – allowing Sherlock to fill in any blanks via deduction. Victor would frown worryingly, guiltily, when Sherlock hinted at darker times in his past after Victor had left when he was still heavily involved in some less-than-legal substances; and Sherlock would frown worryingly at how well Victor could wear that façade of his old electric pep and energy when it was obvious the mental strain of his injuries and his capture were brewing in a storm inside his skull, ready to turn into a hurricane. But Sherlock, fully aware of his social and emotional short comings, stayed silent on the matter. Afraid to prod in the wrong places and have the dam break as it were.

Their discussion came to a close when Victors replies began to take longer to escape his mouth, his eyes drooping in exhaustion and the fact they they had had to up his morphine dose at some point in the last hour as Victors pain began to become too severe for him to ignore. The younger man left after being granted permission to come back and visit the next time visiting hours allowed (“of course you can idiot, you can't just waltz in here, check I'm not dead and then vanish for another eight years”). As he exited the room Victors eyes finally closed in a drug hazy sleep, unlikely to be woken again for hours. 

“Goodnight Victor.”

On the way back to Baker Street Sherlock caved in and bought a packet of cigarettes that his craving always demanded when faced with a stressful situation. He ignored Johns offer of tea as he rushed up the stairs to lock himself in his bedroom, also ignoring the inevitable insult that was also thrown his way in retaliation for his rude behaviour – affectionately of course, well, to and extent. The rest of his evening was spent perched on the fire escape, watching people shuffle round in their kitchen windows he could see from across the small gardens, chain smoking, and letting himself remember.


	2. Changes

Eleven years ago – 1999:

For Sherlock, getting into university early had meant to be an escape. It was supposed to be his big break to finally be free from the mundane banality of the Sussex country side and the shallow minded individuals from his school. It was supposed to be his chance to get away from the controlling hand of his parents and their attempt to forcefully cram him into a neat little box labelled 'the perfect child'...or possibly 'Mycroft 2.0', though he was fairly confident that to his parents both those phrases were one and the same anyway. And it was meant to be, if he was very lucky, his opportunity to get away from the ever present label of the 'freak'. All in all it summed up as a chance for a much needed change in his life to take place.

It was in the second semester (after a lonely and disappointing first semester) of Sherlocks university career, whilst he was crossing a road in front of the library, arms full of books, that the change he had anticipated upon leaving home finally appeared to him. Or more accurately it hit him, suddenly, at thirty miles per hour and in the peculiar shape of a beat up 1982 Ford Sierra. Sherlock felt the metal shell of the car crack into his side, rolling him onto the bonnet before the momentum of the – presumably panicked – driver slamming on the breaks promptly threw him right back off. The whole incident happened so unexpectedly fast that Sherlock found himself wandering, in that split second when he took off, why he suddenly felt weightless? why he could suddenly see the ash-grey cloudy sky flying by in front of his face? and why too were there books floating his field of vision? before the crack of his skull against the pavement slammed him back into reality. 

He had always thought the age old cliché of stars flying around your head while the world span on an axis in front of you mainly came from TV comedies and ancient cartoons. But as he lay on the tarmac - vaguely aware of voices around him loudly muttering in what should probably be concern but was more in the tone of gossip – he noted that the world did in fact seem to be twirling to a degree, and there was definitely something sparkly passing by his face, and he felt the odd urge to reach up above his head to try and catch them like fireflys. His musings were interrupted by a concerned face leaning over him, black styled hair falling across a dark, warm toned angular face, softened by rounded features and honey coloured brown eyes, breaking his view of the sky and snapping the world back into stationary focus. His hearing however chose this moment to become distorted, the mans words that were being spoken down to him were muffled as if Sherlock were deep underwater and not a mere foot away from the other boy. He was dimly aware that he was just about to pass out when his brain decided to supply him with some vital information before he did so. Wow he's pretty. He thought of the strange boy who ran him over before his head lulled to the side and he was out cold.

It will be months before Victor informs him he spoke these words aloud. 

It wasn't long before Sherlock woke up of course, no serious damage had occurred but knocking your head of the pavement hard enough to black out was sadly enough to warrant a trip in an ambulance for an overnight stay in the hospital. Once re-opened, Sherlocks eyes immediately closed again with a frustrated sigh when he took in the clinical pale green walls of his surroundings. why green, why do they always choose pale green for these wretched places? Another reason for his sudden reluctance to face the word was the startlingly painful jolt of fire the light sent coursing through his skull. Sherlock had had headaches before of course, bad ones, but this was a new level of pain. He felt like his brain must be in at least three pieces by now, rattling around and clashing together in his skull. With a small grunt he began to reach a hand towards his head, eyes scrunched up in pain before he was rudely interrupted in his agony by the dawning realisation that there was another person in the room with him.

He heard them shift in their seat first, probably curled up in some awkward position, trying to get as comfortable as possible in the universally uncomfortable hospital chairs before they leaned forward towards him and spoke in a voice entirely too loud for the small storm current raging inside Sherlocks brain.  
“Hey! You're awake! I was getting worried you might be in a coma or something, I mean the nurses said that wasn't the case but you never know with these things.” Sherlock opened a single eye a crack to stare at the manic stranger watching over his bedside who was smiling nervously and realised, with a groan, who it was.  
“You don't have to be here just because you were moronic enough to hit me with a car, If I were you I'd just leave and go back to jumping from degree course to degree course because you're obviously content enough to never settle on one field of study long enough to succeed in anything. Indecisive over whether you want to set out to achieve your own goals or pander to the will of your parents who want you to go down a certain field of study or take over a family business. You think with all that jumping from course to course, giving up and restarting that you'd find the time somewhere to better train your dog as well. Maybe then it'll stop taking chunks out of you and everyone around you, small dog I’d assume, vicious little shits. Anyway I really have no interest in you being here spare me your guilt and leave.” He finished, pulling a hand up to his face and groaning again in pain. The monologue had been tasking and frankly weak in comparison to his normal deductive abilities but considering the golf-ball sized lump growing on his head there wasn't much else he could do since thinking currently hurt. At least it should be enough to make the boy up and make a run for it and leave him peace.  
“I have settled on a course as of this week thank you very much, but you're not wrong about Sheena being a vicious little shit though. That was fantastic by the way. If I didn't know any better I'd say you were psychic” Victor replied looking no less calm and comfortable than he his two minutes ago as he casually took a sip of his coffee and raised a conspiratorial eyebrow.  
Fantastic? Sherlock thought Well that's...different

For the following weeks after Sherlock had been released from hospital with two stitches and a concussion Victor practically stalked the younger boy. He was simply unshakable, no matter how hard Sherlock tried to scare him off. He had even attempted to be verbally violent to the man in a long winded rant about his sheer stupidity when Sherlock had been having a bad day. Victor had just laughed it off and replied “How do you manage to use five syllable words in an angry rant? Most people resort to 'fucking this and fucking that', to be honest the whole thing was a bit rich coming from a guy who doesn't even look both ways before crossing the road.”  
The response had irritated Sherlock as someone who was used to predicting peoples responses to his rants with precision accuracy, they were more often than not entirely constructed with the intention of making someone run to the hills but Victor stayed. He always stayed.

The boy got even more irritating when he one day decided to rummage through Sherlock files he had set up in untidy boxed is his dorm room and accidentally stumbled across a copy of his birth certificate, immediately catching on the the fact the Sherlock wasn't his first name. Inevitably Victor ended up calling him William at every opportunity after that point, he thought it suited him. If Sherlock ever asked him to stop it he would simply get an “Aww William it's okay” and a pat on his face for his trouble that made the skin where the older boys hands had come into contact with him feel hot and the touch seemed to linger even after the hand had gone away, a feeling that Sherlock had never before experienced. Victor was certainly something different to the normal droves of humanity. That was for sure.

Eventually Sherlock resigned himself to the knowledge that he would most likely never understand the inner workings of Victor Trevors mind and was surprised to find that actually...that was okay. 

It was after Sherlock had resigned himself to this fact that he found he actually enjoyed being in the older boys company. They fell into a routine together of lunchtime meetings on campus, late night phone calls bitching about their fellow students, Saturday pizza and movie nights where Victor would introduce Sherlock to his favourite films and Sherlock would pick apart the plot holes and the continuity errors and inform Victor what actors where sleeping with their co-stars off screen. Sometimes they would go out to obscure punk rock concerts, hanging out in the back of the crowd – Sherlock ever reluctant to be in close contact to people – letting their minds grow hazy and unfocused with alcohol or high and electrified with illicit chemicals before staggering back to whoevers flat was closest, arms wrapped around each other for support before they collapsed across sofas and beds and fell asleep. Victor would always cook them a fry up the next morning to help with the hangovers, shuffling around the kitchen in soft pyjamas, dark hair mused and messy and eyes sleepy but smiling. He was beautiful.

But Sherlock could never get up the courage to tell Victor this. That his feeling towards him might extend beyond friendship.

Thankfully Victor could however. He expressed this to Sherlock over the summer break when the two were staying for a week at Victors sister home along the coast, enjoying what little sunshine the British weather deigned to give them over the summer months. Anika Trevor was four years older than her brother with an air of care-free optimism to rival even Victors. She however lacked the harsh temperament Victor possessed when threatened (that Sherlock would have denied existed unless he had seen it in full force when a group of guys from Sherlocks chemistry course had began drunkenly harassing him in a bar) making her a disgustingly, unforgivably nice human being that Sherlock should be all means despise and want to mock constantly but god-dammit he couldn't help but like her. She acted like he was already an extension to her family. Treating him like a little brother in all the ways his own older sibling had not, and to top it off she was fiercely intelligent to boot. And she picked up on the boys attraction to each other from the moment they walked through her door...well...not long after at least, it was over lunch actually, when she caught them looking lovingly at each other between bites of sandwich, always when the other was looking away. Idiots. She had thought.

It was on the third night of their stay that Victor had dragged Sherlock out of the small house at two in the morning with no explanation as to where they were headed, leaving Sherlock to follow blindly as the older man lead him down town roads towards old dirt paths leading up the hilly landscape, the hood of his sweatshirt drawn up and hands hidden in the sleeves against the night air. His right hand had begun to shake noticeably from the cold not long into their assent of a particularly tall and grassy hill, fingers frozen in place where they wrapped round a heavy torch that lit their path. Victor frowned in concern.  
“you okay?” Victor asked, halting them in their tracks in an unfortunately muddy area. Sherlock was suddenly glad he had stolen a pair of Victors old trainers instead of his own for their walk.  
“Cold.” had been the simple reply.

Victor took the torch from Sherlocks' hand, dropping it to the floor before grasping a set of frozen fingers between two gloved hands and rubbing vigorously.  
“You feel like you have frostbite, its august Sherlock how are you even this cold?”  
“bad circulation?”  
Victor huffed a breath before pulling the gloves from his hands to hand over to Sherlock who accepted them with a smile. Victor once again took Sherlocks now gloved hand into his, entwining their fingers and breathing hot air onto their hands to keep them warmer.  
“Better?” he smirked at Sherlocks small nod before reaching down to pick up the torch himself and continuing their journey. Sherlocks heart rate was now increasing with every step they took up the hillside as Victor still hadn't let go of his hand and wasn't that new?. Exhilarating even. He was incredibly grateful all of a sudden for the warm set of gloves he now had on because he was sure his palms were bound to be sweating.

The two eased back into their normal conversation as they continued on their hike, both sneaking small glances and smiles at their entwined hands where they swung between them. Sherlock felt positively giddy, an emotion the teenager would never had attributed to himself in a million years up until five seconds ago, sure the two had been in physical contact before but this felt different, more deliberate, meaningful. Before it had just been arms slung round shoulders, leaning against each others sides while watching movies, Sherlock resting his head in victors lap, waking up tangled together on a sofa after a night out, that was...normal, wasn't it? Victor hadn't felt the same way he had for as long, had he?

Sherlock was beginning to get the feeling he had been incredibly dense.

When they reached the top of the hill Victor used their linked hands to pull Sherlock around to face him.  
“What do you think?”  
Sherlock frowned in confusion. What did he think? Think of what? Was this where Victor had meant to take them in the middle of the night? Really? He looked round with a crease between his eyebrows. There was literally nothing there. It was a tall, dark grassy hill with a view down to more tall dark grassy hills. Victor read the confusion written plainly across Sherlocks features with a huff of laughter.  
“Look up”  
Sherlock glanced at victor quizzically before raising his eyes to the sky. And he froze.

Sherlock had never been one for the wonders of the solar system and the swirling galaxies he knew existed somewhere in his universe but the sight before him was gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. He had never seem the night sky look so vivid before, the light pollution in London near drowned out any glimpse of the stars he was ever given. But up on that cold dark hill the stars lit up like stage lights placed up in the dome of the earth’s atmosphere, and if he stared long enough he could see past the obvious ones that glared brightly down at their planet to the faint smattering of those further away, swirling dimly in the shape of the milky way.

“Its beautiful”  
“Yeah” Sherlocks focus snapped back to Victor at the strange, strained quality of his voice and cold blue eyes widened when they saw Victor wasn't looking at the sky at all. There was a moment where the two boys simply stared at each other before Victors gaze travelled downward to Sherlocks lips and  Oh my god he is actually going to do this isnt he? but Sherlocks internal panic was cut short by a pair of cold lips leaning forward to press to his own, mouth moving slowly as Sherock tried to copy the foreign movements. The kiss was innocent and tame in comparison to what the two would begin to experiment with in the following weeks and months and years but, to Sherlock at least, it was different, and new, and exciting, and a tad awkward yes, but it was...important, thrilling even.

He just grinned dumbly at the man when he pulled Sherlock down onto the dry grass to lie half on top of his, the arms of both students wrapping around the other happily and protectively. 

They stayed like that, huddled together on the ground and alternated between talking, having Victor point out different constellations in the night sky and increasingly passionate make out sessions where legs tangled together, brushing upward to create friction that made Sherlock gasp and tighten his grip in Victors hair until the sun began to rise early in the sky, the first glimpses of orange peeking out behind the green landscape. The walk back to Anikas house had been more difficult than the walk from it despite the easier downhill stroll. The boys were sleep deprived, exhausted and hungry and quite frankly dead on their feet but the long hike was more than worth the expression of pure glee on Victors sisters face when she caught sight of them ambling up the drive way, tired grins on their faces and hands entwined by their sides. Sherlock was sure in that moment, as he gave Victors hand a soft squeeze and looked towards him with unaffectionate smile, that nothing would ever pull the two of them apart. They were perfect.


	3. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big warning for drug abuse here, if that triggers you then I would advise you avoid.

Three years later - 2002

It was four am when the sound of keys dropping on the floor, loud cursing and the eventual click of a lock echoed in from the hall outside Sherlock and Victors small London flat. This was the third time this week Sherlock had come home late after vanishing during a night out. He would inevitably be high.

Victor had been sat tensely on their sofa with Sheena curled up at his feet since he had arrived home at midnight, back rigid, muscles tensed and fists methodically clenching and unclenching to keep from hitting something as he awaited the return of his boyfriend, wondering, not for the first time, how things had gotten so bad. He should have noticed Sherlocks downward spiral surely, Should have done something about it, but had been convinced, or possibly in denial, that the drugs were just a phase, that he just used on their occasional nights out and that Victor had no right to start preaching about that, for he himself had been doing the exact the same thing. But then small bags of powder began to be found, hidden out of sight around the flat behind books, on top of cupboards and in the bottom of rarely used drawers, and victor began to notice the glazed over look in Sherlocks eyes that was still evident on the odd occasion he got home early from work, and all the while felt powerless to do anything about it.

It then seemed like no time at all until everything had truly begun to fall apart. Sherlock had been hiding the fact that his grades had been dropping ever since Victor had graduated his languages course the year before. This had only come to light after Sherlock admitted he had been dropped from his degree course due to lack of attendance. Victor began to worry over where Sherlock had been all those times he had thought he was in classes. It was even more worrisome how none of this seemed to bother the younger boy.  
“Fuck it Victor, they weren't teaching me anything I wanted to be learning anyway. The lecturers were dull, the students are dull the whole things was just  dull ” He had ranted before dramatically falling back on the sofa. It also seemed that without the need to at least scrape by in his exams that Sherlock was left with more free time on his hands to indulge in stimulants and narcotics, and the further Victor worked his way up in his job, the further Sherlocks addiction ran wild.

Victor was snapped out of his musings when the door flew open with a bang, adding to the growing dent the doorknob had been slowing carving into the drywall, and Sherlock fell through it, catching his balance on the coffee table so he wouldn't keel forward, giggling at his instability.  
“Where the hell have you been?!”  
Sherlocks giggles turned into full blown laughter at Victors stern face, the added exertion actually did cause him to collapse onto the floor, startling Sheena from where she had been asleep at Victors feet and causing her to scamper off in the direction of the bedroom with a yelp.  
“I'm serious Sherlock! I'm sick and fucking tired of having you vanish and come home high as a kite, you have a problem! How many times have I told you this?!”  
Sherlock laughed harder.   
“I don't have a problem.” He slurred “You just need to lighten up, you've been so bloody uptight ever since you started workin' fer the bloody govr'ment. Calm down Mycroft”  
“I've been 'uptight' ever since you decided to piss your life away on drugs Sherlock!” Victor screamed, mentally flinching at how their neighbours were likely to complain about the noise yet again. He remembered when they used to get told off for playing David Bowie too loud, not for having late night domestics. “And compare me to your brother all you want, its no wonder he's such an uptight bastard after having to deal with the train-wreck that is you his whole god damn life!”

Sherlocks laughter stopped abruptly, his smile warping into an up-turned sneer as he gritted out out a level “Fuck you”. Victor only glared back at where his boyfriend sat sprawled in front of the sofa glaring up at him in a challenge in his eyes before Victors shoulders physically sank in defeat as he turned and marched towards their bedroom, slamming the door and leaving Sherlock to pass out on the floor where Victor would wake him in the morning. He'll be fine by himself, Victor reasoned, its not like its the first time.

-

The next morning Sherlock was plagued by a familiar sense of guilt as he sheepishly watched Victor from over his bowl of cereal as the man sped about the flat, slamming drawers and cupboards open and shut as he got ready for work, downing his third cup of coffee in an attempt to ward off the tired look in his brown eyes caused by yet another sleepless night. Although the loud thumping was causing the headache Sherlock was nursing from the come down to flare up painfully, he didn't complain, not wanting to cause Victor any more bother than he already had the night before, and well, many nights in the past also. He felt pathetic. He was destroying them both.

He didn't smile as Victor walked over to him before he left, resting a gentle hand on the side of Sherlock face and placing a chaste kiss to his lips with a promise to try and be back a bit earlier in the evening and they would talk. 'talk'that word sent a jolt of panic up Sherlocks spine. The younger man merely placed his hand over victors, translucent skin resting over a glowing tan, searching desperately in the other mans eyes for forgiveness but seeing nothing but a cold mask of stress and worry as the hand on his face was pulled away from under his own as Victor left the room, uttering a hushed 'Goodbye William.” before shutting the door with a small click.

The silence in the flat was painful.

Sherlock was already itching for another hit now that he was alone but had sworn to himself he would cut back on the drugs for his boyfriends sake, seeing the strain it was beginning to put on their relationship. As much as Sherlock denied and denied and denied that he had a problem, that he had everything under control, he new somewhere in the back of his mind that that was far from the truth. But Sherlock was a creature of pride and control, and admitting that he could be anything but completely unshakable was proving a harder task in practice than it was in theory. Any time he was confronted it felt that the words were on the tip of his tongue ''Well help me then' But all that come out was the harsh hissing and spitting of denial. 

The want for drugs was was getting painful now. Like there was no longer blood flowing in his veins but a thousand microscopic incests mixed with viscous red fluid, squirming around in his arteries and causing him to itch from the inside out. He could swear the ones flowing by the blue stripes under his skin at the crease of his elbow were biting him internally.

He distracted himself from the temptation by chain smoking his way through a packet or Marlboros and counting the discoloured patches of plaster scattered across the ceiling. Only pausing once from his task to contemplate playing his violin before deciding against it to once more stare blankly up at ceiling. Sherlock had lost track of the time he had spent doing this when he was dragged out of his trance by a sharp wrap at the door. Four precise knocks in quick succession made with a blunt instrument instead of a fist...an instrument such as an umbrella...Mycroft...shit.

Sherlock stayed silent where he lay on the sofa, hoping his interfering brother would eventually give up and go home. It would be nice if he could for once take the hint that Sherlock was not interested in seeing him and bloody well leave. There was a brief moment where it seemed that Mycroft may have done just that and nothing but blessed silence emitted from the hallway before the sharp sound of a key being inserted into the lock broke the illusion like a fist to the gut. Sherlock threw his arms over his face and cursed.

He kept his eyes firmly shut under the shield of his arm as three imperious footfalls clicked across the wooden floorboards to allow their owner to leer over the boy who was sprawled across the sofa hiding his face.  
“I never gave you a key” The sound of Sherlocks voice was muffled by his arms but the disdainful tone it held was still clearly audible.  
“No of course not, but it was hardly any bother getting one made myself” The condescending tone of his brothers voice caused Sherlock to childishly throw his arms away from their resting place across his eyes to thump into the back of the sofa indignantly.  
“Out! Just get out, I don't care what you have to say, or complain about or whine about or lecture me about just leave.” He rose from the sofa with a flail to wrench open the door, pointing out into the hall way. “Off you pop!” Mycroft simply raised an eyebrow and forcefully closed the door again, almost knocking Sherlock to the floor when the piece of wood was wrenched from his hand.

“We need to discuss this little...habit of yours Sherlock it's getting out of hand”  
“Everything is completely under control thank you Mycroft, I do not have a 'habit' I..”  
“You're killing yourself Sherlock! Don't think I didn't catch you stumbling home last night for the third time this week on CCTV.” Mycroft snapped “Just look at yourself Sherlock!” He grabbed his brothers arm in one hand and pulled up the sleeve of his shirt of the other, exposing small bruises along the inside of his elbow. Mycroft Holmes look ill, for once letting a small glimmer of emotion slip past his mask of ice, making Sherlock uncomfortable...and enraged. How dare he chose now of all times to start caring?  
“You will lose everything Sherlock!” He composed himself as Sherlock wrenched his arm away with a snarl and continued “You've already lost your place at university, you will lose that wretched waiting job you're barely managing to hold onto, you will lose this flat, your health and you will lose Victor if you do not clean up your act.”  
Sherlock flinched slightly at the mention of Victor, yes it was true that their relationship had been...strained, to an extent, but not the the point where the other man would up and leave surely. Despite all the worries circling in Sherlocks head that any day now would be the breaking point....no. That wasn't true, Mycroft knew nothing, he was simply trying to manipulate Sherlock into doing whatever he wanted, like a puppet on a string.

Sherlock didn't deign to respond to his brothers comments, he simply reached past the government official to re-open the door silently pointing out into the hallway. When Mycroft opened his mouth to object Sherlock swept his hand in a circular motion round to once again point out into the hall, emphasising his want for Mycroft to exit. As his brother passed the threshold of the door with a long suffering sigh and Sherlock made a move to slam it, its momentum was halted by an expensive leather shoe blocking it from latching into place.

“You think he won't leave Sherlock but I must warn you to be careful. Try asking him about his job.” Mycrofts voice carried the tone of a man keeping a weight of secrets locked behind his words.   
“Caring is not an advantage little brother, remember that”  
The foot slipped out of the doorway leaving it to shut with a quiet snap. 

Sherlock resumed his chain smoking on the sofa, but he could no longer concentrate on his counting.

-

When Victor returned from work that night, eyes tired and drained he had barely a second to slip in bag from his shoulder and dump it by the door before he found his back slammed up against it as a hot pair of lips attached themselves to his and a body pressed up against his own. Sherlocks movements were frantic and desperate, hands threading through Victors hair, pulling and tugging, hips grinding forward, pinning Victor in place as his tongue flicked out against his lips, looking for entrance, groaning when it was granted and ignoring the brief noise of disagreement that slipped past the older mans lips. The conflicted expression Sherlock had caught briefly flickering across Victors features left an uncomfortable weight to settle in the bottom of his stomach, the familiar sense of foreboding seemed to seep out of it also, filling up his insides with worry like a poison. He clamped down on it. When Victor looked like he was about to speak up again Sherlock shut him down by again deepening the kiss. He didn't like what he had just seen in Victors eyes. It was an expression of guilt, the same expression he had always worn when he had to pass on bad news, like the time he had to admit to stepping on the neck of Sherlocks violin. Sherlock could only think back to Mycrofts warnings, the words racing through his head mockingly.   
“I'm sorry” Sherlock whispered as cold hands wound their was under his t-shirt. “I'm sorry, forgive me?”

Victor seemed to relent with a sigh, trailing his lips down Sherlocks jawline to his neck, nipping and kissing and biting causing Sherlock to gasp softly and lean into the embrace. The first time Victor had heard those noises he swore he would keep Sherlock making them forever.  
“I know you're sorry.” Victor murmured with little pause before he was sliding his hands down the back of Sherlocks pyjama bottoms, pulling their hips flush against each other. Victors avoidance of the question left Sherlock feeling like the weight in his stomach had been replaced with a hook piercing though his insides, pulling downwards sharply. He threw himself into their kiss passionately, kissing with all the desperation of a man on death row, if Victor wouldn't listen to how sorry he was, how much he needed him, then he would show him.

Victor had begun to push at Sherlocks hips as their mouths moved together, making him stumble slightly as he was guided backwards from the door to the kitchen counter. As soon as Sherlock felt the sharp edge hit his back two long legs jumped up to wrap round the taller mans waist, leaving Victor to catch them and pull Sherlocks hips forwards while sliding him onto the work surface. Sherlocks hands reached downwards, grasping Victors belt and cupping him through his trousers, the heel of his hand grinding down rhythmically as his lips sought out Victors neck, sucking hard and biting at the small slimmer of collarbone peeking out from under his shirt, marking as much of the warm flesh he could get his teeth on. The two had found very early on in their relationship that Sherlock was a biter. A vicious one.

A pale hand worked its way into a tight pair of trousers, stroking slowly up Victors length in practised movements, pausing on every other upstroke to gently swipe the pad of a thumb over the head of his cock. Victor was moaning in earnest now, hands roaming under the fabric of his boyfriends shirt, smoothing their way up soft skin before scraping downwards with nails, leaving faded red marks striped across white flesh. The hand in Victors trousers withdrew quickly to start tugging his trousers down the way for better access, while Sherlocks mouth continued to suck dark bruises into Victors neck. The movements seemed to startle Victor out of his lust hazy trance.

“Wait, wait stop”

Sherlock was frozen in place as a strong hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him from tugging on the fabric of his waistband. The hook in Sherlocks stomach was now twisting sharply as he looked up to see the guilt haunted expression painted back in place across a set of brown eyes. Sherlocks barriers went up immediately, hand snapping back to rest in his lap, pushing himself backward on the counter to close his legs from when they had just a minute before been spread wide with the man in front of him between them.   
“Whats wrong?” he snapped.  
“I just think...well we need to talk Sherlock, I meant to say that when I just got home there and you kind of distracted me I guess I just...”  
“No.”  
“You haven't even heard what I was going to say!”  
“I know what you're going to say!”

Victor took a breath and a step back from where Sherlock was perched on the kitchen counter.  
“I really don't think you do, not everything at least” 

Sherlocks was having trouble controlling his breathing now, breaths coming out in short pants rather than long inhalations. He had never been one for emotional stress but here he was, with the only person he had ever loved standing in front of him readying himself to destroy their relationship and everything they had built up over the past few years and it was all Sherlocks bloody fault. Sherlock had never been dumped before he didn't know how he was supposed to take it, go and get high was the most likely option...maybe he should tell Victor that, that if he didn't stay he would just be making Sherlock worse and...no he could never be that manipulative to Victor.

“I'm being interviewed for new job”

The quick jolt of hope that sent shooting through Sherlock was doused quickly when he remembered Mycrofts words of warning.

'Ask him about his job'

“It's for the British intelligence, SIS to be exact. My final interview is tomorrow and I should know soon whether or not I've gotten the place”

Sherlocks eyes narrowed suspiciously as he asked why exactly such news would warrant a serious 'talk' as they seemed to be having. Whatever the answer was was making Victor look like he was in physical pain.

“We're having a...a talk because this job is important to me Sherlock. If I get it it will require me to be away for long periods at a time and I'll need to have a clear head, I need to guarantee that actually...”  
“and?”  
“...And I can't do that if I'm constantly worrying over whether or not I'll get a phone call one day saying someone's found you passed out and OD'd in a back-ally somewhere. Last night was one time too many. I can't do this forever.”

Sherlock felt sick.

“I said I was sorry for last night I...”  
“You say you're sorry every night Sherlock, but it never changes.” Victors voice remained painfully gentle while Sherlock felt his blood begin to boil over under his skin, his voice beginning to strain.  
Sherlock jumped down from the counter to pace the length of their flat. 

“So what? You're just going to drop me so you can run about the world getting shot at and being my brothers little worker bitch because you don't trust me to not fuck up while you're gone?! what, do I need looking after?!”  
“Sherlock you can't even admit you have a problem and I'm not...”  
“Because I don't!” The words were like a knee jerk reaction. Every time he spit denials at Victor the regret was immediate.

Victors hand lifted placating as if Sherlock was a frightened animal.  
“I'm not...breaking up as such I just. We should maybe take some time apart. You can get help, get clean. I need a break from worrying about you.”  
“There's no such thing as 'a break' Victor you know that damn well. You just want rid of me.”  
“Sherlock I don't”  
“JUST SAY IT! Any time we've spoken in the last month its been you bitching at me! I can't even remember the last time we fucked!”  
“Because any time you come on to me you're high!”

Victor finally snapped, kicking over the end table by the sofa with shout. Sherlock flinched at the sudden change in behaviour. He was well aware that how he was handling the situation was making it anything but better but maybe, in reality, there was no getting better. Victor had decided to get rid of him and that was that.  I'm surprised it's taken him so long a nasty voice whispered viciously in the back of his mind. He shook it off.

“That's not true” The lie didn't even sound convincing to his own ears. “If your job's more important to you than me then just come out with it, don't bullshit me”  
“You're twisting my words now.”  
“I'm not! You may as well have said it!”  
“William please.”  
“Don't call me that! You're just doing this because...”  
“I'm doing this because I refuse to waste my future stuck in this shithole watching you kill yourself with drugs! Is that what you want to hear!?”   
Sherlock flinched, clenching his fists compulsively before grasping up the first object he could find – which turned out to be the remote for the DVD player – and hurling it at the wall past Victors head. The other man didn't even twitch.  
“If you think your life here is so shit then just go! I'm obviously not enough to keep you from leaving so what's stopping you walking out the door?” 

Victors silence was enraging. Sherlocks emotions were swelling like the tide in his chest, swirling like seasickness. He had the options of A) breaking down in tears in a pathetic heap on the floor or B) lashing out viciously. Unwilling for Victor to see him as weak in that moment he chose the latter option. Spitting out insults and remarks like an angered cat, dumping every small but insignificant detail about Victor that had irritated him over the past three years onto him at once. There was a small portion of his mind somewhere that was still in touch with reality and was panicking as it took in the sight of Victors face looking more and more downtrodden with every word hissed out between clenched teeth. It was begging him to shut up, to stop, to apologise but Sherlocks impulse control seemed to have snapped as the words kept pouring out of his mouth in a steady stream of hurt.

Victor was left to watch dumbly as Sherlock cut his rant short and disappeared into their bedroom. He knew that, to Sherlock, spitting out deductions and insults were a coping mechanism of sorts for when he was upset or afraid and they usually rolled off Victor easily as he knew there was no weight to them – It was something that had made them so well suited over the years. But Sherlock had sounded so sure in those moments, so filled with utter loathing that Victor was struggling to shrug the comments off like he knew he should. Sherlock emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later, soft pyjamas exchanged for a worn pair of jeans, a shirt, and a jacket.

“Where are you going?”

Sherlock made his way to the door. Swinging it open with a bang, punching an even bigger hole in the drywall before slamming it behind him.

There was no answer.

-

Sherlock returned to the flat two days later. Tired, defeated, and struggling through a terrible terrible come down. But he was determined, hopeful even..

In his hands were a series of leaflets and information booklets picked up from a local clinic, detailing everything from rehab facilities, support groups, different strategies to take when getting clean, twelve step programs. The whole nine yards. He had decided, when he had woken up at four in the morning on the hard wooden floor of his dealers house, that in no world was he prepared to lose the one good thing he had in life to something as pathetic as needing a high. He had spent a solid hour staring at the tract marks littering the crook of his elbow in small red spots and wondering how he had managed to sink so low. He was going to change. He was going to get better. But he needed help to do so.

He felt, for the first time in months, optimistic. Images played through his head like movie scenes of walking through the door, pleading forgiveness from Victor, showing him the leaflets, admitting he needs help and promising to get better. Meaning it this time. They would hug, cry, kiss, Victor would tell Sherlock all the details of his new job and Sherlock could actually be excited for him this time round and they would celebrate it all by having slow, lazy sex on the sofa before going another round in the shower.

None of this had the chance to actually happen.

The flat contained nothing but the heavy air of silence and none of the usual sights of Victor popping his head out of the kitchen to greet him or Sheena running to the door to nip at his ankles . He called out Victors name to hear no response. Hopefully he made his way to their bedroom door – It was early, Victor was probably asleep, the handle turned quietly before unlatching.

The room was half empty. Drawers cleared and cupboards half bare, now only containing the items belonging to Sherlock. Victors suitcase that normally rested in the bottom of their shared closet was gone, as was the small quilted bed that Sheena like to nap in that usually resided at the foot of the bed. The only new thing in the room was the small scrap of paper resting on the side table.

I got the job 

Sherlock didn't bother trying to get in contact via phone, the number will have been changed soon after he left and his email address likely disabled as well. He made his way to the kitchen, not feeling the floor beneath his feet or the leaflets in his hand as he released them into the bin, paper slipping down into the plastic container with a deadened thump. If he had tried to imagine finding himself alone like this before he would have pictured himself panicking, despairing, crying tears of anguish while curling up in inconsolable pain.

But it appears that in reality that wasn't the case. Of course, in the following months Sherlock will experience all of these reactions, most of them several times, curled up alone and cold and high and full of more longing than he would have ever thought possible. But as it was in that moment, the man he loved was gone and he could feel nothing but cold numbness seeping through every pore in his body. His movements were like he was watching someone else's that had been filmed carefully on a first person camera in some mundane television show he would never lower himself to watch. A set of hands that seemed to be not his own searched out a bag of white powder from a copy of 'The Refugees' that had been sat innocently in the bookshelf gathering dust before seeking out a spoon from the cutlery drawer and a small wooden box from the top of the wardrobe containing a small collection of disposable syringes and a lighter. 

Preparing the drug had been calming and methodical, the practised movements keeping any withheld emotions at bay leaving him blissfully numb. The prick of the needle had been the first thing he had been able to feel since entering that room, he almost savoured the small stab of pain it brought as the sharp metal bit into his skin, but it was soon washed away by the feeling of heroin rushing through his veins and weaving its way into his mind, muting the world and drowning out the hurt he wasn't yet feeling. A narcotic comfort blanket. He lay back against the wooden floor of the living room, closing his eyes and giving in to the pleasure of a hit.

Caring he thought Is not an advantage.


	4. Reconciliations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the future, or...well the present.

Despite Sherlocks promise to drop by the next time visiting hours of the hospital in which Victor being cared for allowed, it was over two weeks before the pair were once again in the same room together. Sherlock had found himself caught up in a rather interesting string of murders which demanded his full and singular attention . It had begun with couple that had been found, violently murdered in their South Bank flat over looking the Thames, no discernible motive could be found and no evidence seemed to have been left at the scene. Scotland yard was, by all accounts, baffled. (as usual).

The confusion over the bizarre killing had only grown as week by week, similar murders were popping up all over London with the same unnerving lack of, well, anything but blood found at the scenes, and no connection whatsoever between the murder Victims could be found except for the fact that they all resided within central London which admittedly didn't narrow things down in the slightest. It was when the fifth body was found that the police force final caved and requested the help of their 'favourite consulting detective' to assist in solving the crime, despite the fact that he had already been hacking into their resources and trying to solve it himself from the comfort of 221B Baker Street.

The team had looked on expectantly, eagerly awaiting the inevitable look of bafflement that would appear on Sherlock Holmes' face when he wouldn't be able to make heads of tails of it just like the rest of them when he derailed their assumptions with one simple word.  
“Cat.”

On the ginger fur of a small kitten owned by the most recent victim was a small smear of red blood. Forensics reports also uncovered a single finger print which was not that of the owner, on the black leather collar of the small feline. The detectives in the room scoffed at the idea that a murderer, obviously intelligent and ruthless enough to slaughter five people in cold blood and leave not a trace of their involvement behind, would be caught out by the desire to pet a small orange tabby on their way out. Surely. The thought of It was preposterous!

They caught the murderer three days later. The fingerprint was found to be a match to one Samantha Harrison, an unstable but intelligent woman in her mid-forties living alone in a small terraced house which was interestingly filled with none other than a grand total of twelve cats, who had been in Scotland Yards' database for a previous offence of violent assault. She had of course confessed everything, how her Victims had been rude customers who had come into her work place at the DMV and acted like it was her fault they had lost their licences or had a whole number of other issues with the department. After so many years of verbal abuse something had snapped and she'd started picking off the offenders one by one. It would have been the perfect crime really...had her obsession with small four legged felines not been in the picture. The case concluded with a whole myriad of “excellent”'s, “brilliant”'s and “fantastic”'s from one John Watson as he wandered off to write up the case on his blog.

A blog was currently open in a tab on Victor Trevors' computer when Sherlock finally made it to visiting hours.

“The Case of The Killer Cat Lady” Victor announced, eyes glued to the computer screen as Sherlock entered the room. “This is, by far, the strangest thing I have read on this blog so far. Except for that mention about you having to dress as a clown for some reason or other, but that didn't include detail so...”Sherlock grimaced at the memory.  
“You won't be getting that story out of me either I'm afraid.”  
Victor smiled slightly at the quip, Sherlock was well aware the other man now fully intended to get a detailed explanation of that specific case out of Sherlock of it killed him.  
“I assume this is why it's taken you so long to reappear then” Victor waved the Macbook in the air with his one hand showing what he meant. Sherlock nodded in affirmation, although that wasn't fully the case. The detective had been dealing with a whole wealth of hurt feelings and bad memories snapping at his heels over the past weeks. Feelings he thought he had long ago gotten over. It seemed however, that as he had sat outside in the cold of the fire escape remembering all the good times that he had shared with the SIS agent that it was only the natural progression of things that the more bitter memories from the end of their relationship would follow. He had kept his distance for as long as possible, not wanting to accidentally snap out some remark he would only regret. Even as he stood looking over Victors hospital bed the he could feel all the comments and jibes and violent responses he had concocted over the years of their separation pressing up against the inside of his lips, trying to force their way out through his lungs. 

“How much longer are you stuck in here” He instead managed to force out, gesturing to the bleak looking room, now adorned with a couple sorry looking bunches of wilting flowers.  
“I'm discharged today actually, three o'clock. Anika's coming to pick me up if want to hang around until then.”  
Sherlock frowned at the thought. God knows the last news she had heard about him from Victor can't have been good, for as sweet and loving as the woman was she was fiercely protective of her younger brother and he shuddered to think of what her opinion of him will now be. He didn't like the thought of one of the only people he'd considered a part of his family when he was younger acting coldly towards him.  
“I'll pass.”

Victor seemed to sense where Sherlocks thought process was going and didn't push it. There was a soft rustling breaking the momentary silence as Victor shifted so he was sitting upright on the bed, crossing his legs underneath the blanket and nodding towards the now vacant lower half of the mattress in invitation. The man had obviously sent a lot of time lying down over the past few weeks and very little time washing properly as his ruffled brown hair held a faintly greasy sheen to it which made it stick up wildly in a fuzzy halo behind his head where it had been resting on the pillow. The sight was ridiculously endearing and Sherlock couldn't help but comment, making the other man laugh and mess his hair up further as he took his seat, also cross-legged, to face Victor on the bed. The position brought back memories of late night conversations in Uni dorms. Good memories this time. 

“You have an arm I see” Sherlock pointed, withholding his hatred of ever stating the obvious.  
“Well sort of. A plastic one for the meanwhile, I should be getting another soon. Your brother feels partly responsible for my capture it seems. Apparently their was a leak in security that his department should have picked up on and didn't so he's funding me to get one of those 'bionic' ones from a company in America once I've healed more.” Victor looked almost excited at the idea, Ridiculous as it was. The man had just had half of his arm surgically removed for god sakes. The unshakable optimism that followed Victor around his life however was one of the traits Sherlock had truly grown to admire – Even if it may be currently acting as a defence mechanism to keep him from falling to pieces. The detective had seen little of Victors happy go lucky personality in the last few weeks of their relationship and, no, he wasn't going to go back to thinking about that. He was just going to be glad to see Victors natural manic energy up and running and driving Sherlock insane. He rolled his eyes.  
“You have an unnatural ability to 'look on the bright side' as it were Victor.”  
He just shrugged.

“I just want to get out of here and get back to some sort of normalcy in my life. Normalcy and functionality, that'd be nice. Three o'clock can't come sooner”  
“You could just up and leave now, It's coming up lunch hour, nurses will be milling about all over, changing shifts, not paying attention. You could just walk straight out.”  
“I can't just leave Sherlock.”  
“Really? I thought that was something you were good at?”

The agent froze.  Fuck Sherlock thought Bit not good. A weak laugh escaped the detectives lips, urging the comment to be dropped, ignored, killed off, buried and forgotten but it was obvious by the conflicted expression pinching Victors features together in creases that that was not, sadly, going to happen. 

“I wondered when that would come up.”  
“It doesn't have to it was ages ago its...I was a mess it's fine”  
“It's obviously not fine if you'd bring it up”

Obvious statement but Sherlock had been hoping Victor would accept his desire to drop it and just let the topic die. If there was one thing Sherlock hated it was the need people felt for opening old wounds and prodding and poking at them for the sake of 'talking it over.' It was far, far easier to simply bury these things and leave them in your past to be slowly eaten away by time and inevitable forgetfulness. He expressed this sentiment to Victor.

“Yes but ignoring the pain without facing it - treating it even - to allow it to heal and scab over will just allow the wound to become infected, It'll fester, and spread taking over parts of you you never wished it to, until the only option left is to cut off that aspect of yourself so you never have to face it.” There was an obvious bitterness to Victors words that suggested his thoughts had strayed to darker territories than bad analogies about facing their feelings. “Say what you need to”

This was the opposite conversational territory than Sherlock was comfortable with. The detective was happy enough living his life while pretending his feeling were completely inaccessible, A habit he had developed in his teenage years that, as he had grown older, had almost begun to think of it as the truth. The fact that it was Victor he was talking to seemed to dull the panic response growing in his chest, urging him to throw up his walls of defence and refuse to engage in any matters as trivial as emotions. Part of him hated this fact, the other was overtaken by the thought that, as he stared at Victor with his comically mused hair, older but no less beautiful appearance and open inviting expression, he realised he missed him, or had missed him. He wasn't sure whether that made him feel elated to have him back in his life or angry that he had every let someone have such a profound effect on him in the first place. 

“I always thought” He began “That if I ever ran into you again after what happened I would hit you so hard your head would spin” Oddly the threat of violence drew a laugh out of the agent.  
“To be honest when you walked through the door a couple weeks ago I thought you would.”  
“Like I'd hit a man without two fists to fight back with.”  
“Like I'd need two fists to beat you in a fight.” It was Sherlocks turn to laugh while picking at a stray thread on the bed sheet.

“I'm sorry you know.” The statement pulled the conversation back into more serious territory, the weight of whether or not forgiveness would be granted hung heavily in the air.  
“You're not the only one who needs to be sorry” Sherlock whispered finally looking up into Victors eyes. “I forgive you though.”  
“And I you”

The words were like a rock had been lifted from each mans chest that had been settled there eight years ago from that moment, and that had become such a familiar weight on their bodys that when it was finally removed the sudden oxygen rush from just being able to breathe properly again was dizzying. The soft fabric of a hospital gown was suddenly pressing up against Sherlocks cheek before he could consciously register what had happened. His arms wound round a warm, familiar body, pulling it tight against his chest and closing his eyes while he felt two arms wind round his own back in retaliation, squeezing tightly, one warm, with curled fingers gripping at his coat and one cold and solid. Their embrace was slightly awkward, bent over sets of crossed legs while Victor ignored the jolt of pain it caused to a back injury he hadn't mentioned, but he was far too reluctant to let go because it had been far too long since he had had the mad genius that was Sherlock Holmes in his arms.

“I missed you Vic.”  
“I missed you too William.”


	5. New beginnings.

3 months later:

Tea coated the kitchen floor of 221B Baker Street in a mess of hot liquid amongst broken pieces of ceramic mug as John threw yet another towel down to soak it up before adding the now drenched piece of fabric to the growing pile of it in the clothes basket and getting to work on with the dustpan and brush. There was a small collection of odd cups and mugs lined up on the work surface that Sherlock had picked up the day before from a local charity shop all so Victor could re-learn how to make a cup of tea. He had obviously informed the man that it was perfectly possible to make one using his right hand only but the agent had been adamant that the first thing he would learn to do properly with his new prosthetic would be to make a cup of tea “So I can once again consider myself properly British”. Ridiculous

Sherlock was nothing short of fascinated by Victors new limb and the soft, mechanical whirr it produced when moved. The device was controlled by electrodes placed over the still functional muscles at the end of Victors arm and acted as a sort of switch moving the prosthetic hand into different positions, allowing him a great deal more functionality than the previous static and plastic arm. Victor seemed a lot happier with the improvement, although he had initially been a bit put out by the obviously artificial and robotic appearance of the bionic limb – after reassurances from Sherlock he had managed to accept the aesthetics of the device. And when he was able to move it for the first time he learned to love it. It wasn't nearly as good as the arm he had been born with of course but then again, nothing would be, and so he would try not to dwell on it. He was luckier than most in his situation after all.

With time and rehabilitation and the therapy sessions Victor eventually consented to attend, the spark Sherlock remembered from their youth was finally back – properly this time, not just as a mask hiding a man on the verge of a breakdown. It was also becoming increasingly difficult to keep victor in one place for a long period of time without him bouncing around like a puppy now that his other injuries had also healed, finally allowing him a proper break from pain. Sherlock had more than once caught him jumping from foot to foot on the spot as they were in line at a coffee shop or waiting to cross the road

There was another crash from the kitchen, swearing from Victor and a long suffering sigh from John as he fetched another towel.  
“Forth time lucky here we go” Victor chanted. He had said this the past two attempts as well.  
Sherlock just smiled fondly at his friends stubborn determination from his perch on the kitchen counter, his gaze lingering on Victors body a second too long obviously by the knowing smirk John short him from the door way. He started paying about on his phone instead.  
There had been little physical contact between the two since their five minute long embrace in the hospital – and the more serious conversation they had had about their past that had followed - an unspoken agreement between the both of them apparently to keep their distance and not attempt to re-ignite their past relationship. The detective had thought it was for the best initially. Initially he had had no intention in the first place of chasing down something that had been broken between them almost a decade ago, they were both different people now, they weren't the kids they remembered from university there was no guaranteeing they would just 'work'. But as the months had past Sherlock had slowing seen that he may have been a tad off in his assumptions. Victor was undoubtedly the same stoic, energised, beautiful goofball he had been in university – When he wasn't in 'work mode' as Sherlock put it, that he had first witnessed when Mycroft and Victor discussed what position Victor would hold now field work was out of the question – and as it turns out Sherlock type hadn't changed in the slightest either. He still thought Victor was perfect.

“Tea!” the exclamation broke Sherlock out of his thoughts he had fallen into while resolutely staring at his phone screen. There was a small cheer from Sherlock and John as Victor held a mug precariously in one hand and deposited a tea bag in the bin with the other. John gave him a congratulatory pat on the back, partly happy he would be cleaning up no more spills but mostly just glad for Victors achievement. Sherlock had been slightly put out by how well John and Victor got on when they had first been introduced and immediately bonded over sports and sports teams that Sherlock had no interest in. It was worse when they laughed over Sherlocks eccentricities while he sulked in the corner. Worse again when Lestrade showed up and joined in - after a brief and very awkward moment when Lestrade recognised Victors name from one of Sherlocks drugs fuelled rambling in the early days of their acquaintance , Lestrade had always had a very protective nature, but Victor had always had a very charismatic one and won him over in the end. Despite his popularity however Sherlock had to take a certain comfort in the fact that it was more often the others being third wheeled in conversation than it was Sherlock. He always had been a selfish creature.

“Go on then, Victory sip.” John urged. Victor brought the cup up to his lips cautiously, placing them to the edge of the cup and promptly poured tea down his front as the rotation of his wrist jerked faster than he expected. He spluttered slightly and Sherlock had to hold back laughter.  
“I'm still counting that as a success” He said switching the mug to his right hand and taking a proper sip. John agreed that despite the soaked shirt he should still count it before announcing his late shift at the surgery and darting upstairs to get changed.

Sherlock hopped down from the kitchen counter to set about making himself his own cup of tea after Victor had told him to get stuffed after asking him to do it for him. The two said nothing but stole small glances to each other when they thought the other was otherwise occupied much in the same way they had after they had first met, both had to hide smiles when they caught each other in the act. Like it was their own private joke or secret even though the topic of their love life had slowly come to be a slight taboo between them over the past months. 

The pair settled down at the kitchen table once Sherlock was finished clanging mugs and tea jars and spoons about, finally staring openly at each other over mugs of tea, Sherlock with a shy smile on his lips and Victor with a sly smirk. The lingering gazes where broken by Sherlock.  
“You look happier you know.”  
Victor felt pride swell in his heart at the fact that he was still considered important enough by Sherlock for him to take any actual investment in his emotions. Those who knew Sherlock or even knew of him knew that that was a difficult thing to achieve.  
“I am. Not one hundred percent of course but I'm getting there. I'm adjusting.”  
“The therapy seems to be helping” Sherlock looked away as mentioned it, hoping Victor wouldn't see that he was partly vying with that comment to get Victor to open up about what had happened to him. After Sherlock had gotten over the nausea the thought of it had cause him initially he was insatiably curious, never to the point of actually pushing for details though. He wouldn't want to upset Victor like that, never like that. 

“It is I suppose, even though it can be difficult. Sometimes it feels like it would just be better burying everything and trying to convince myself it didn't happen, it even feels that way some time but...”  
“But its better to sterilise the wound than let it fester” Sherlock repeated Victors statements from their meeting at the hospital.  
“Exactly.”

There was another lull in their conversation where Victor looked like he was struggling with whether or not to begin a sentence, jaw opening as if to speak several times before the movement was aborted. Sherlock gave him time to sort his thoughts out by taking another few sips of his tea, leaning back in his chair with one arm stretched out across the table. Just when he seemed to give up on saying whatever he was going to say, shoulders sagging in defeat he surprised Sherlock by setting down his mug and sliding a hand across the table to rest atop Sherlocks own. He stared at their hands, resting in the middle of the table for several long seconds. This seemed to surpass the bounddaries they had non-verbally set up in the past three months for physical contact, sure they hugged hello and goodbye but this seemed more...intimate, in a way. The detective slowly slid in hand a couple centimetres back, just enough so he could raise his fingers slightly to entangle with Victors own. Only then did he look up into the older mans eyes to see the excitement and was that...relief? In the others eyes. Obviously he had been worried Sherlock would react negatively to the advance.

“You've been wonderful these past few weeks William. I wanted to thank you.”  
Sherlock gave the strong hand in his grip a squeeze, telling him it was no problem. With anyone else the thought of sitting around in hospitals, clinics and waiting rooms would have bored Sherlock to death on the spot – he's fairly confident his mind might have just shut itself down in self preservation at the idea of it – but with Victor it was different. Seeing him heal and mend and grow again as a person had been almost a privilege.

“Really though, I've had some rough patches over the past while -”  
“Understandably” Sherlock interrupted  
“Well yes obviously but your presence has helped a lot, kept my mind off things even when I had a few break downs here and there you stayed calm and I needed that” Sherlock winced at the memory of Victor finally cracking under the pain and memory’s of what had happened and collapsing into Sherlocks arms. He had seen Victor cry only twice before moment, the first when his sister had been in an accident and the second when he found Sherlock passed out on their bathroom floor for the first time – the sobs had woken him up. Every time he saw tears on Victors face he hoped it was something he would never have to witness again. “I just don't know how to thank you”  
“Then don't” Sherlocks voice was soft “Because you don't have to, I wanted to be there”

Sherlocks other hand came up to rest on their interlocked fingers, Victor copied the movement, fingers bending lightly over the three hands on the table with an electronic shifting noise. The only sound after that was the silence of Sherlock stroking a thumb tenderly and repetitively over the side of the other mans hand, and then a series of bangs. Loud footfalls to be precise, as John ran noisily down the stairs from his bedroom. The two men at the table pulled back quickly, no longer leaning forward towards each other but backwards, casually, hands disentangling from the middle of the table. The doctor must have noticed some sort of odd look passing Sherlocks features however as he shot him the same look he had earlier before bidding them farewell and disappearing down the second set of steps. Sherlock would never know how John found out about their past relationship status but he did know that the jumper wearing army doctor would definitely be finding more experiments in the microwave for his troubles.

The brief moment the two men had shared seemed to have been broken by Johns departure as Victor stood up announcing it was probably time he got going as well as he was grabbing lunch with his sister. Sherlock got up to see him to the door, expecting them to make their usual farewells and go their separate ways when he was stopped by Victor pausing in the doorway and standing entirely closer to him than was normal.  
“Sherlock, I hope I'm not misinterpreting the way we've been acting around each other the past few weeks but, you said you were free tonight, well, resigning yourself to die of boredom with the telly on was how you put it, so I was wondering if you'd let me take you out to dinner this evening. Not like we've been doing so the in the past months but, like we used to.”

The awkward teenager residing in the back of Sherlock psyche was suddenly re-appearing inside Sherlocks mind and was doing the mental equivalent of flailing slightly at the words. He was very glad Victor couldn't read minds right now or it would be terribly embarrassing. Externally however the detective was, as always, able to keep himself calm, collected and casual. If Victor ever caught the momentary widening of excited eyes he never mentioned it.

“I'd like that yes” It was now time for Victors eyes to brighten and the same childish reaction to pass through his mind now that he knew he hadn't mis-judged the pairs skirting around each other and shooting each other longing glances.  
“I'll be back round at seven then.” And with that he leaned in and pressed a small, innocent kiss to the corner of Sherlocks mouth before disappearing down the wooden steps. 

When the front door clicked shut, the consulting detective most certainly did not let out a sigh worthy of a teen romance novel, and he definitely, definitely did not shut the door to the flat and lean back against it staring over at the cooling mugs of tea on the table. None of this happened, in the slightest...at least that's what he'd tell you.

-

Victor had taken them to a quiet, quirky little place they had discovered together in their uni days that they had appreciated for the extensive bar menu and eclectic music choices that played as background noise the hushed chatter of the customers. They held hands across the table in between courses, having to separate of course when food arrived so Victor could actually use his one fully functional hand to eat, as much as Sherlock tried to challenge him to use the other. Apparently knocking wine glasses across the table would be undignified. Their conversation was light and easy but Sherlock found the longer the night progressed the more and more difficult it was becoming for him to keep his eyes of the man across the table. He assumed by Victors frequent gazes back that he felt much the same.

They stayed as long as they could at their small table in the corner, stumbling out almost three hours later after having ingested what could possibly be considered a few too many glasses of wine as they had sat and talked, causing them to become light headed and giddy as the alcohol seeped through their systems. A drunken hand searched out Victors for stability as Sherlocks foot caught on a raised paving stone and he tripped up. A high pitched giggle escaped the detectives which Victor thought might have possibly been the most endearing sound he had ever heard as he let go of Sherlocks hand and instead wrapped an arm around his waist keeping him upright and hugging him close as they made their way back to Baker Street that was thankfully just a couple blocks away and around the corner. 

The warmth of Baker Street was welcome break from the cold of the night as they trudged upstairs, greeting Mrs. Hudson on the way who was still fluttering about her flat dealing with laundry and fretting over the damage Sherlocks latest experiment had caused to the kitchen table. He would pay for a new one of course but that wouldn't stop her telling him off. Thankfully the pair where able to avoid any signs of John in the flat and his inevitable suggestive looks as they made their way to Sherlocks bedroom, Victor hesitating in the doorway, worrying about if they were moving too fast when he was startled by Sherlock dumping a pile of blankets into his arms and heading towards the window. Evidently he had misinterpreted the scenario a bit.

Sherlock fell ungracefully through the now wide open window and on to the fire escape with a thump, landing on his side while Victor managed to climb a tad more gracefully over the windowsill and land on his feet. It was obvious which of the two held their drink better. Blankets got spread out over the cold metal railing that composed the structure while the rest were half draped over Sherlock as he sat and huddled into the corner, holding the other half up in the air in invitation for Victor to join him, who of course obliged, settling in at Sherlock left side. 

The combined heat of two bodies under soft blankets was enough to keep the bitter chill of the cold air from affecting the couple as they tugged on the two loose ends of the material to hold it in the middle, trapping the warm air. Sherlock shifted his body to the left, knees drawn up to his chest and leaning over to rest against Victors, his head settled on the taller mans shoulder. He sighed contentedly when he felt an arm settle across his shoulders and pull him closer.

“Is their a reason we've set up camp outside your bedroom window?” Victor asked good naturedly, turning his head to see as much of Sherlock as he could where the man was pressed close to his body.  
“You always had a habit of dragging me out late at night to sit around places pointlessly. Our first kiss was when you dragged me up that god awful hill in case you'd forgotten”  
“So this is you getting back at me in a lazy way?”  
Sherlock looked up at him.  
“Or a lazy attempt to be romantic, its your pick though.”

An affectionate laugh escaped Victors lips and he placed a fond kiss to the top of Sherlocks head, pointing out that they lacked the wonderful view of the stars they had had that night.  
“They were beautiful.” A distant look had settled upon Sherlocks face at the memory of it. Although he had little care for astronomy or the scientifics surrounding the night sky, that night had certainly left him with an admiration for the aesthetics of it at least.  
“I suppose it's aright for me since they weren't the beautiful thing I was looking at that night anyway.” 

Sherlock scoffed at the corniness of the comment but it didn't stop it from putting him into a daze like it had the first time he had heard such a thing escape Victors lips. Oh how history repeats itself  
“Is this the part where you kiss me then if we're just re-scripting eleven years ago?”  
“If you want me too.”

No further prompting was required for Sherlock to place a delicate hand on either side of the agents face and pull his lips down to meet his own. He was glad to find that kissing Victor was much the same as he remembered it to be, starting slowly, a warm brush of lips and the slow slide of two mouths moving together before Victor darted a tongue out, running gently along the detectives bottom lip causing him to sigh into the kiss and deepen it. This was the part where Sherlocks brain began to zone out from the world around them and hone in on the feeling of a warm body against his own, the feeling of a hand massaging his lower back, running its way up his spine, the feeling or soft hair between his fingers and the sweet slide of lips moving in a passionate kiss.

They stayed that way on the fire escape, clouds rolling above their heads and Sherlock hoping somewhere in the back of his mind that they didn't get caught like teenagers by one of Mrs Hudsons gossipy neighbours, until the warmth of the blankets surrounding them where not a good enough insulator from the harsh night air and they were forced to retreat inside, shutting out the cold winds with a click of the window.

Sherlock stripped down to a pair of boxer shorts and crawled under the duvet whilst Victor fumbled with taking his prosthetic off, complaining that he didn't have it's charger with him which really was one of the oddest sentences Sherlock had heard in a while. By the time Victor had also stripped down to a similar state of undress Sherlocks eyes were slipping shut where he rested on the pillow, the alcohol that was still running through his system obviously making him drowsy.

The minute Victors head hit the pillow Sherlock was curled up against his side, arm and leg swung over him and head resting on his chest drifting off to a sleep in which Victor was more than content to join him. It was just as Victors mind was beginning to slip into that strange limbo between wakefulness and dreams that he was pulled back to reality by a soft whisper from his chest.  
“I think I love you again Victor”  
The words were hesitant and quiet but so hopeful and honest it made Victors pulse thrum in his veins, his body feel lighter than it was.  
“well I know I love you William”

The only response was the tightening of arms around his body before the younger mans breathing evened out into sleep and the only noise to be heard was the wind whistling by the window and over the fire escape outside.

-

The next morning John Watson will stumble down to the kitchen as the first rays of sun filter through the window, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he goes to ask if Sherlock wants any of the cooked breakfast he is about to make for himself that he'd been craving for days. He will open the door to Sherlocks room, mouth open and ready to speak, shut his jaw with a click of his teeth, close the door and compose a single message to Greg Lestrade reading:  
You owe me twenty quid  
And get back to making his breakfast.

He will also tease the two men who eventually slip out of Sherlocks bedroom looking tired and drowsy relentlessly, with suggestive remarks and knowing smirks that for once Sherlock can laugh off easily with a shake of his head, returning Johns smile with a small, downward gaze. Because, at that moment, the two of them, Sherlock and Victor are back where they had started, back where they should have been all throughout the long years of their separation, and this time he wouldn't let it fall apart. This time was forever.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it, the end. I can't begin to tell you how much I actually enjoyed writing this, it was initially meant to be a series of very short snapshots of the pairs lives through the years but at some point down the line I scrapped that idea and it ended up being something with a rather larger amount of words to it than I intended.  
> I hope my wonderful giftee enjoyed it, I tried to meet as many of your specifications into my story as was possible but I found it was an obvious struggle to incorporate them all. I hope this was enough.
> 
> Kudos comments are always appreciated and if anyone would be interested in reading any more of this series I would be more than happy to write it.  
> Also if anyone is interested you can read about the type of prosthetic Victor has been fitted with [here](http://bebionic.com/the_hand), they obviously cost a good few thousand pounds but the technology and engineering involved is wonderfully interesting and innovative.  
> thanks for reading.  
> x


End file.
